We flipped a coin, and apparently I've been assigned to you as a teacher, which means Augustine's got the one with the strange sword fetish. Which house were you again?
[ She cannot keep these Lyctoral babies straight yet. ]
No winning or losing; not enough information yet to say, since you're both so very wet behind the ears. You aren't literally insane, though, so I suppose that's a plus.
Oh, go on then, might as well give me both. An honest assessment of your professional/necromantic & personal strengths and weaknesses in 500 words or less: go.
→ brotherbeloved. i've grown a tongue so sharp & cruel; it's all that i can give to you, my dear.
The sexy parties most of all, but even the ordinary social fetes and gatherings grate on her nerves like a rusty sawblade; there's too much trite conversation, too much sloppy affection being exchanged between Lyctors, Ulysses cracking cheesy jokes, and Augustine looking so terribly smug while blowing smoke in her face.
Mercy allows herself to suffer it all, however. She's sprawled on a chaise longue beside her brother-saint, sitting at stiff angles with several feet of prim distance between them, her spine straight and jaw set, with a strangling grip on her flute of champagne. The sparkling wine is two hundred years old and incomprehensibly expensive, but she's still had enough of it that she's tipsy and punchy, staring at Cassiopoeia on the other side of the room, where she looks as comfortable as Mercymorn is uncomfortable. The Saint of Joy would be more bitter about it if Cassiopoeia weren't so kind at the same time.
Another puff of smoke gusts into her face, and she bristles like an angry peacock, glaring at him. "Augustine. Must you constantly smoke those things? You reek like a factory. And even a Lyctor's track record for repairing cancer isn't fantastic, if you recall."
She shoots a significant glance at Cytherea across the room.
Augustine, on the other hand, loves the parties. The fact that Mercymorn hates them only makes them more fun.
Right now, Augustine is more of an observer than an actual participant -- he's working a cigarette in one hand, a flute of champagne in the other, and his eyes almost match the smug, contented smile on his face. The lively bustle of his saintly brothers and sisters fills him up, in a very special way, and his smile is very nearly genuine. Ordinarily, he wouldn't be caught dead near Mercymorn, but this is his third round of drink, and he's more of a lightweight than he cares to admit. At least he's not under the table. In this state, deliberately antagonizing Mercymorn is almost fun.
Augustine tips his head back and lazily releases another puff of smoke. Then, he does the unthinkable: he looks directly into those awful eyes that Mercy wears, leans over, and lets a bunch of cigarette ash fall all over the floor. Oh, the untidiness of it all!
"My, are you concerned for me? I'm touched. I really ought to return the favor." Augustine takes a sip of his champagne. "You ought to relax. Have a cig. By John, have a drink. I won't have you ruin another one of our little sprees, even if you do have a thousand-year streak going." Augustine offers Mercymorn a rude little grin that very clearly reads: eat shit.
Mercy startles like a frazzled cat, frowning down at the scattering of ashes at her feet. One neat stiletto heel reaches out and she toes it with the edge of her saddle shoe, trying in vain to sweep the drizzle of powder under the chaise — or at least out of sight, out of mind. She cannot abide a mess.
"I have had a drink. I have, in fact, had many drinks. This Third House vintage always goes right up my nose; it's intolerably fizzy."
Her voice is clipped and severe, each word driven into the air between them like she's stabbing it. Augustine's presence is so familiar, like perpetual fingernails on a chalkboard, raking down her spine and prickling her skin. She wants to wipe that smug smile off his face, mop him on the floor with it. Perhaps shove his mouth into those ashes. Impossible.
The implication (true as it is) that she's the one who's ruined the parties makes her nostrils flare. "As if I'm the one causing a scene, and not our sister vomiting on the tablecloth. I can at least stomach my drinks." There's a thoughtful look in her flinty, stormy eyes. "This is fine. I am relaxing. I am relaxed. But if Cyrus starts unbuttoning his shirt, I am breaking down the door and storming out of here."
If Augustine were a little more sober, he'd maintain a smug poker face while Mercy does her best to clean up ash with a stiletto. Instead, he's much too tipsy for that right now, and chuckles at the scene. The Saint of Joy looks almost as idiotic as Cristabel used to, which, from Augustine's perspective, is very difficult to do.
As much as he hates to admit it, however, Augustine does not disagree with Mercymorn's assessment of the Third House vintage. True to form, it's all sparkle and no substance, which means it's not getting Augustine drunk as quickly as he might like. He shoots Mercymorn a disdainful look, and throws back the rest of his flute. "Intolerable? This is nothing. If you want intolerable, look in the mirror. I'm going to need several more of these if I'm to make it though a party that you've so kindly decided to attend."
Augustine's gaze turns to the now-vomiting Cassiopeia. He shrugs, completely unbothered. "You ought to give it a try sometime. It'd be the first funny thing you did in your life. I'm sure Ulysses would even cheer. Breaking down the door, on the other hand, absolutely counts as ruining the party." Augustine really should have stopped talking several sentences ago. But his judgement isn't in the best state right now -- that's probably why he's talking to Mercymorn at all, honestly.
He keeps going, despite himself. "It really would be such a shame. For all your inane zealotry, you'd really destroy holy property like that?" His voice has taken on a bitter, scornful tone. That sentiment has always been lurking under the surface whenever Augustine speaks to his eldest sister, but now, thanks to the drink, it's bubbling up to the surface.
Any time the others had suggested she simply sit out these parties, Mercy had still recoiled and refused — because she may hate the parties, but she hates being left out more. So she sits here, and she suffers.
And she answers, distractedly, "Our work is holy. God is holy. The walls and doors and tables of the Mithraeum, however, are not holy. They're just things."
Even as those words leave her lips, however, murmured into the edge of her glass, Mercy's already second-guessing them and hating herself for second-guessing them. Is God holy? She saw him this morning with a coffee-stain on his pristine white shirt. He's just a man. The First and Second Saints, above all, know this better than most. They've been with him the longest, and they remember him back when he was still shaking off the last vestiges of mortality, or even pre-Resurrection, back when he was just a man. He's now a very powerful one, and immortal, but still. Those cracks are there.
Augustine is the very last person she wants to bat these thoughts around with. She wishes Cristabel were here, to pick her brain and go over these quiet worrisome subjects. (But she isn't, and she's dead, and isn't that part of the whole problem?)
"Anyhow, I suppose this one could be worse, even your company aside. There's no herald alert to interrupt it and we haven't all been eaten alive yet, so."
What is a fist or a gesture, if not a tool? What is a tool, if not a thing? Mercymorn's answer, Augustine thinks, proves his point. Either it's all holy, or none of it is. Either way, just because it's holy doesn't mean it's good. But, like Mercymorn, Augustine wishes he could say that to Alfred, not her. Augustine the First has all the time in the world, but what he craves, deep down, is five more minutes with the dead.
Augustine makes a whole, pretentious show out of lighting another cigarette and taking a drag. "Aren't we all things, Joy?" Once again, he's being deliberately annoying. Depending on how you look at it, this is either his worst or best drunken philosophy in the last century. He's on a roll tonight.
Mercymorn, apparently, is as well, since she's just gone and said something horrifically funny. Augustine barks a laugh, false and brittle. "Could be worse? Why, I'd much rather have an RB eat me alive than spend time with you." At least in that case, he probably wouldn't be conscious.
Come to think of it, however, he could make himself a little less conscious, here. Augustine lazily rises from his spot and fetches a bottle of the Third House vintage, first filling his flute up before returning to fill up Mercymorn's. Assuming she doesn't jerk the flute away, that is. If she doesn't, Augustine will fill up the flute just a tad too full, so that a little of the champagne spills on her gown.
The way he always insists on calling her Joy feels like nails on a chalkboard, a pebble in her shoe. Rubbing her nose in the irony and hopelessly reminding her of Cristabel, all the damned time. "You are so dramatic, Augustine," she says, rolling her eyes at his declaration. (As if Mercymorn isn't one of the most melodramatic bitches on this space station, but.)
She holds the flute out, unthinkingly, only to be rewarded with a splash of champagne for her trouble. The look Augustine gets in return is spiteful, glaring daggers at him; for a brief moment, Mercy daydreams optimistically about sharpening her ulna into a knife and stabbing him with it. Bone magic isn't her forté, but she could make do.
Her sleeve is now damp, as is the tulle of her skirt, making the gossamer-thin fabric stick to her thigh. It's not disastrous, but it's mildly uncomfortable. He loves making her uncomfortable. She takes a deep swig of the glass to make up for it.
"If you're losing control of your hands, by the by," a pointed look at the spilled champagne, "you might want to get that checked out. Could be a stroke, or deteriorating motor function. I could take a look, if you like." She flutters her fingers at him. A threat if ever there was one; they both know what damage Mercy can do with a touch.
"Oh, I assure you, I am perfectly in control of my hands." That spill was intentional, thank you very much. Augustine's tone is as even and conversational as ever. His smile might pass for warm, but that smile doesn't reach his eyes. Alfred's eyes rarely lie, and right now, they're a cold, steely gray, filled with an ancient contempt. "If you bring those silly, wiggling fingers of yours any closer to me, Joy, I will throw you so deep in the River that an extra-special stoma will open just for you."
Augustine takes up his seat again. He's blissfully quiet for several long moments, sipping his drink and surveying the party with those steely eyes. God, who must think that he and Mercymorn are finally managing some polite conversation, gives the two of them a happy little wave. The gesture makes Augustine feel nauseated. Augustine mutters darkly, mostly to himself, but just loud enough for Mercymorn to hear. "You don't deserve that, you know. None of us do. But especially not you."
Nobody should be friendly towards a monster. No one should love a tomb. And Augustine has a special contempt for the prim grave who sits beside him. He has spent the better part of the last thousand years convincing himself that his state is her fault. For all of Mercymorn's obsession with control, she couldn't control her stupid cavalier. Now, halfway through his fifth glass, Augustine is more convinced of this than ever.
[ the river styx shivers, and the goddess of the dead snaps to attention.
hades hears the howling whenever she comes to the shore, the endless, mournful churn of the dead. how they long to pass through into her kingdom, out of the tortured half-existence all of humanity is forced into, thanks to the ego of one shitheaded madman in a crown. how they long to know peace. sometimes, a handful of souls slip through, but it’s drops in the vast oceans of thanergic power that john fucking gaius hoards and hoards and hoards. hades does what she can, welcomes them and makes them comfortable, but otherwise…
now, though? this moment, this second, something happens. the wards flicker like she’s never seen them before. this isn’t styx’s normal ebb and flow, this isn’t one of the resurrection beasts coming through the maw of one of the stoma. this is the entire ecosystem wavering, the whole kit and fucking caboodle’s existence in question. something is happening to the usurper, and hades would kill to find out what. metaphorically speaking. and literally, probably.
she dives in.
it’s like swimming through wet concrete. styx has always had strong currents, but this is downright viscous. for a few frantic strokes, hades is sure that she’s made a mistake. maybe she’s finally gone insane, imagined something, and this is the dumbest method of suicide anyone’s ever conceived. but no, this is the river styx, and regardless of what gaius has done, she is still its mistress. she inhales, and the water recedes around her. exhales, and her feet hit solid ground. stands upright, and styx parts before her. around her are the souls of the dead, bodies and babies and victims and murderers. and somewhere in the distance, there’s one blazing beacon of necromatic power, a hundred centuries old. hades knows a lyctor when she sees one.
the current crashes towards her, bringing one body out of billions closer and closer in a wall of water and blood and death - and then, as if she were fishing, hades reaches and grabs the lyctor by her collar. she turns back home, and trudges through the mouth to hell.
by the time that she’s surfacing onto the far side of the shore, her hair’s already dry. the woman she’s dragging behind her won’t be as lucky. when hades’ boots hit dry sand, she lifts the woman up and out of the water and hurls her onto the shore. ]
[ the river is a hundred thousand ghosts; is all the pent-up screaming dead which haven't gotten to pass on, so long as john gaius still holds them all trapped and in check, hungry and waiting. mercymorn the first isn't a spirit magician like her brother-saint augustine is, but she's intimately familiar with the river regardless: she has fought in it so many times, her rapier carving her way through revenants and heralds. she has seen a gigantic hulking revenant beast be baited through the stoma. she has watched cytherea the first be torn apart by all that unquiet dead.
when god blows her apart, she's fairly certain that's the end of it for her.
but it's one lone soul blazing with power, desperately trying to piece itself back together like he had done — but her power is nothing, nothing beside his, and so she remains dead, tossed almost contemptuously out into those seething currents. a hand eventually catches her and drags her through to the other side before she's hauled onto the far shores like a drowned rat, hacking up water which is not water. her lungs (which are technically no longer lungs) shudder, wheeze. she isn't alive, but from the looks of things, this isn't the nothingness oblivion of death she expected, either. (what a funny time to discover an afterlife, after serving as the hand of god for a myriad.)
mercy looks up at the unfamiliar woman, perplexed and scowling. and then, because she is a very difficult woman herself, she simply does not answer the question: ]
Who the hell are you?
[ (it is, all things considered, a very ironic question.) ]
[ the goddess of the dead is not tall, but she gives off the impression. she doesn’t accessorize with bones, she doesn’t wear grand robes - hell, she doesn’t even wear a laurel wreath, let alone a crown. hades dresses in black (surprise surprise), but for comfort and practicality: sturdy leather jacket, black tank top, black jeans, chunky boots. she doesn’t look particularly royal or divine. with bags under her eyes, with the knots in her hair, she looks like she rolled out of the wrong side of the bed. from a dumpster. in a bog.
she stalks forwards, and fast. not fast like an accomplished duelist, or fast like a lyctor. fast like somebody had recorded her moving and thrown away half the frames. there’s movements missing: she slumps her body forwards, shifts her hips, lifts a foot, and then she’s taken three steps. hades stands above mercy, sets the heel of her boot on mercy’s sternum, and pushes down. it’s not meant to hurt, not meant to knock what passes for wind out of what passes for lungs; it’s just meant to say stay the fuck down.
(could she take a lyctor in a fight? probably. right now, she’s banking on the element of surprise. ]
Something happened that nearly put an end to your whole shitty religion. You’re going to tell me what.
[ hades leans in. behind her, the river styx laps against the beach, red water against black sand. further back, before where there would be a horizon, the river curves up, and up, and up, a waterfall in reverse, and then it fills the sky above them. if you squint, you might just be able to pick out a particularly large ghost, like trying to see an individual ant in a colony. of course, it’s not quite so straightforward - there isn’t really a horizon or reverse waterfall or even a sky. there is no above the afterlife, there’s only the other side of the river. there is no other side of the river, there’s only the realm of the living. ]
Or I will hold your fucking head down and drown you in the River for the rest of eternity.
[ The boot presses against her chest, just enough pressure to pin her like a butterfly to a board. She's still naked, because her Canaanite robe is somewhere back on the Mithraeum (and unbeknownst to her, John is wrapping himself in it right about now), but Mercy doesn't seem fazed. She should feel horrifically vulnerable now, probably, but she doesn't seem to care. The body is simply a tool, an implement, and hers already snapped like a pickaxe breaking against unyielding rock. ]
Technically, I cannot be drowned.
[ It's not growing gills, but she can oxygenate her own bloodcells and bypass the whole tedious matter of lungs and throat and breathing. The main issue is controlling the panic when you're being drowned. But this woman — whoever she is — is not a Revenant Beast, and so Mercy remains in tight cool control of her sanity and faculties. She stares unflinching up at her from the ground, her own hand seized on the black boot, hanging onto it even if she has no hope of flinging the other woman off from here. She considers touching bare flesh and trying her luck a second time, but the jeans cover too much skin. Perhaps she can reach for an ankle—
Then, the question slips its way past Mercy's default stubborn recalcitrant unhelpfulness, and pings something. 'Your whole shitty religion' would have made Cristabel have a conniption, and Mercy cherishes that sense of faded echoed affront. Cristabel only lives on in Mercymorn's memories of her.
But the Saint of Joy herself is something of a heretic these days. So: ]
Wait, nearly put an end to religion? [ Gears turning. If this is BOE (but she knows it isn't), she could be honest. If this were a civilian (but that doesn't fit either), she probably shouldn't mention what she did. She can't sense thanergy or thalergy pulsing off this being, like the denim-and-leather-clad punk is a complete untappable dead zone — is this some kind of long-lost Super Lyctor or Alecto's cousin or something, fuck's sake, she wouldn't be surprised, John has already lied about so much, so maybe he shunted this stranger through the stoma long ago—
But. Fuck it. ]
Well. I mean. That was me. I tried to kill God. It didn't stick.
[ it’s a snarl at first, an explosion of anger and fury like magma bubbling to the surface. hades has never enjoyed the supposed benefits of being a goddess - the adulation, the worship, the fear - but it’s in her blood, and always has been, and always will be. the thought of a slimy little pretender like gaius being treated like her family makes her nauseous, even if he hadn’t perverted the natural order, defied her own authority and power, likely killed her family, et-fucking-cetera.
the rage on her face slides off in favor of open, fish-mouthed shock. it just about knocks the breath out of her, and hades realizes a few things in quick succession: firstly, that something nearly killed the emperor undying. second, that thing was one of his own saints. and third, that the operative word is nearly, and that the fucker’s still alive. ]
You. [ she needs to repeat it, verify it. hades lessens the pressure of her boot on the woman’s chest. ] A Lyctor. Tried to kill John Gaius.
[ there’s another moment of silence, and then she laughs.
it starts low: a tremor in her shoulders and a quiet rumble, like any joy is being slowly strained out of her. it catches in her throat, choking and squawking, and hades loses her balance, stumbles off of mercy’s chest and bends down in a valiant - and vain - effort to steady her breathing. and it just keeps going, until she’s fallen on her ass into the sands of the riverbank, face red and hot, shrieking in hysterics with laughter that twists into sobbing and back into laughter again. ]
[ freed from the pressure of that boot, mercy sniffs and draws herself up to a seated position, legs curled primly beneath her in an attempt at dignity. the laughter punctures some of that anger and tension stewing between them, like a popped balloon now shrieking as it deflates. it gives her space to consider the matter of clothing — she could construct something out of viscera, she's an excellent flesh magician — but that would be far too hideous and messy. (meat dresses! ugh!) best just to leave it as is, for now.
so she just sits there, naked and huffy and waiting out hades' laughter, like someone who isn't in on the joke. her mouth still tastes bitter with defeat, with the knowledge that even centuries of planning and preparation had not been enough to do in john gaius. she wonders, vaguely, if augustine is going to come tumbling down that inverted waterfall next. if so, she hopes he hits some rocks on the way down. ]
Yes, all of that is correct, [ she says tightly, during a brief break in the other woman's hysterical wheezing laughter. her mouth is pursed and pressed thin, all her pointed expression as stern and severe as a teacher frowning at a student gone too-loud and disruptive. (she doesn't realise yet, of course, that this is a goddess and the goddess is so many more myriads older than her.) she repeats her question once the gasping dies down, stubborn as only the saint of joy can be: ]
Honestly. Who are you? I don't recognise you, and you don't feel human, but you don't feel like a Lyctor either.
Blood and Darkness. [ it’s an ancient curse, murmured so quietly that mercy might not be able to hear. and then, a bit louder: ] You’re all right, kid. [ which is not something that hades would thought she’d ever say about one of gaius’ lackeys. she settles back, resting her weight on her shoulders, like somebody at third house enjoying an afternoon at the beach. for a long moment, she’s quiet. what to tell the lyctor? on the one hand, hades doesn’t feel any godsdammed reason to be honest with somebody who’s spent the last myriad fucking the universe over. (a vague memory stirs, of that lyctor who came down a while ago and immediately started hitting on her. ultimatus? lysistrata? finneas? something like that. whatever, he’s still in the pit hades tossed him into.)
on the other, if she had killed gaius - or tried to, at least - then maybe she’s proven herself to take a couple answers. ]
Yeah. [ she snorts. ] You wouldn’t. [ it’s said without any real venom, but undeniable bitterness. hades stands up, pushing herself to her feet in a smooth motion - and a slight wince when she feels her joints crack. she reaches down to grab the lyctor, to pull her to her feet, and then stops. manners.
instead, she extends a hand. when mercy’s risen, hades looks at her in (and maybe through) the eye. ]
Hades, Goddess of the Dead. The real one. Welcome to the Underworld.
The good thing about the galaxy is that it is so very, very large.
Outside the Nine Houses, the Empire’s control is a sprawling net: strangling but threadbare in patches, where the Blood of Eden springs up like an incorrigible weed and where it’s easy enough for one lone ship to steal away, slip through the cracks, and attend a discreet rendezvous. Sometimes the conspirators communicate via longwave communication, but face-to-face meetings on Eden’s turf are their preferred method.
So Mercymorn’s shuttle pulls up somewhere near the Lemuria system to meet a medium-sized BOE ship, which is exaggeratedly not-House: scrappy and fast and not covered in skulls at all. They extend the gangway between their ships to let her in, with a cacophony of airlocks slamming open and shut. The grinding hum of metal beneath her boots. She’s shed her Canaanite robe today, looking trim and serious and almost military; impatient and tapping her foot as she waits.
The last airlock opens and she stares down the mouth of a half-dozen guns, all trained on her.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The Saint of Joy rolls her eyes.
“Your god is illegitimate and not recognised here, Source Joyeuse,” one of the masked agents says.
“Yes, sure, fine! Regardless. Take me to your leader.”
They blindfold her, but she can still feel each throbbing heartbeat around her, and she automatically counts the number of people on the ship — eighteen precisely — before she’s finally escorted into an inner sanctum, the commander’s office. As the blindfold is removed, she rearranges her hair like a preening bird with ruffled feathers. Turns a bitter look onto the other woman in the room.
“You know they really don’t have to do that. I’m already an ally; I’m beyond fucked if my involvement in this endeavour ever gets out.”
"And if you meant to give us any trouble, you wouldn't break a sweat before burning through a system to do it -- yeah, yeah, all that," flatly.
Wake stands with her back ostentatiously turned, hands locked in parade rest, gazing out through the narrow strip of the viewport. Miserable damned exercise in self-control. She'd swear she can feel her hackles rising, every last time, before the pink fucking lich's footsteps come audible, and she'd swear the thing knows Wake knows it knows; et cetera in aeternum shoot her in the fucking head if she ever thinks of pulling anything like this again.
Comforting, like running herself numb, to make believe there might somehow be an again.
"Utter and absolute theater," she adds, and turns on her heel. "Waste of all our fucking time. I couldn't agree more. But all the same I'm letting my people run you about, because everyone fucking hates this goddamned plan, but they hate it slightly less for giving humble old them the chance to flex on a Lyctor. Thus we all stay more or less on-side and no one has the bright idea of calling in another wing to come in and scour away the rot. Kill me now or accept it without wasting any more time. Your choice."
Fuck, though, not a choice Wake quite enjoys offering. They're not meant to look young, that's all she can ever think -- the faces round those ungodly ancient eyes are meant to show some wear. This one could nearly be her age, if not younger. Nearly. Eerie like a porcelain doll pulled uncracked out of the rubble, if those came in model bitchfit; you can't not wonder what the hell you're playing at, if it leads you to collusion with this.
As the commander swivels, they look at each other, and the saint’s porcelain expression remains glassy and still. (The man Wake hates with every inch of her soul was the one who put that porcelain face back together, and it’s stayed frozen and youthful ever since: none of the people he resurrected have aged, even before they harnessed those ugly Lyctoral powers.)
At that offer, her mouth thins, purses.
She could literally kill Awake Remembrance Of These Valiant Dead right where they stand. Reach out with a touch, shatter the other woman’s bones, rip her heart out of her chest, slough the flesh from her body, while simultaneously shrugging off any bullets to her own brainpan from the guards stationed outside. Killing Wake would be a feather in her cap, and she could cash in on the goodwill and favour that would buy her from God.
But eventually, years or centuries later, there’ll just be another rebel leader to fight. And another. And another. And the Emperor Undying will continue not-dying, and the last of the Lyctors will continue trickling away and martyring themselves for him, and then he’ll create more, and more cavaliers will be ground underfoot, and the cycle will continue. It’s tedious theater on an even longer timeframe. Mercy doesn’t see the point any longer.
So she stands on the balls of her feet, leaning her weight forward like a ballet dancer, and watches Wake’s blood-pressure rise.
“It’s like handing plastic swords to children and letting them think they’re very important,” Mercymorn says, miffed, because she’s always miffed, but then she relents. She’s a horrid little pill, but the horrid little pill is also pragmatic, and she abhors wasting time even more than she abhors the Edenite theater.
“Anyway. To the point. Source Piotra couldn’t make it; he’s accompanying the Emperor to an armed engagement, so we know the latter’s distracted at the moment. You’ll want to send some reinforcements to Nevix next, by the by.”
"You favored me on grounds of something, lich." Wake takes a great and juvenile pleasure in cracking the last syllable sharply and allusively over her tongue; her heart is racing, fast and rabbit-panicky, and she fucking hates it. "Cat-wrangling ability or back view in fatigues, something like one of those. My lot don't feel important enough over this, I wake up to a firing squad and you're put to all the trouble of finding second best."
She stalks back to her desk, measured, measured, count off the footfalls and settles unhurriedly into the chair. Resists the mad, fleeting, entirely -- Pyrrhic -- urge to kick her boots up onto the blotter. All these fucking dances. If Wake feels too old for this shit, she doesn't know what kept any of them from lying down millennia ago and sleeping till the soil drifted up over them.
Pure fucking bitchiness, probably, judging by the ones she's met.
"Noted, thanks much. I have to admit your last earnest of good faith didn't turn out complete bullshit, so I'll take your word for it this time as well." Smiles, quick and crooked and ugly -- "If it plays out, I might have them fetch you back a token of gratitude. Selling me any of your own particular troops today, or would you take just anybody's head?"
Lich. Zombie. Corpse. Mummified wizard shit. Wake keeps spitting these words at them, grinding her teeth on the fact that, like everyone in the original generation, they once died and came back. What is a divine and blessed status in the Nine Houses is a rancid insult amongst the Edenites.
But it pings off Mercymorn like rubber bullets and she doesn’t blink, simply goes to the chair opposite the desk and sits down herself, like a girl summoned to the headmaster’s office (and once upon a time, this had been M– with the Mother Superior, although she doesn’t recall it—). She doesn’t have the skirts to flounce today, but she sits primly. Where Wake is languid with feline grace and affected ease, the Lyctor remains stiff and rigid like she’s had a steel rod strapped to her spine, hands folded in her lap.
And she considers that far more interesting question. Who to sell out? She’s been slowly feeding the Cohort to the enemy, carving off the pieces deemed safe to sacrifice. Never enough to tip the scales. Never enough to lose the war outright to such an outnumbered and outgunned enemy. But enough to keep it interesting.
“Hm. Commodore Ithna, if you do have the chance to get at his flagship. He’s been a little too close to the Emperor lately.”
How much of it is isolating their mutual enemy, leaving God adrift with only a dwindling number of saints to turn to? How much of it is simply being a jealous bitch? Six of one, half-dozen of the other.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
→ worsetwin: early days. a message sent over the communicator.
[ She cannot keep these Lyctoral babies straight yet. ]
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Third. Dare I ask whether you won or lost the coin toss?
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Third. Hm. Your particular strengths? Weaknesses?
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Necromantically, or are you looking for personal characteristics?
[redeeming personal qualities: none]
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→ brotherbeloved. i've grown a tongue so sharp & cruel; it's all that i can give to you, my dear.
The sexy parties most of all, but even the ordinary social fetes and gatherings grate on her nerves like a rusty sawblade; there's too much trite conversation, too much sloppy affection being exchanged between Lyctors, Ulysses cracking cheesy jokes, and Augustine looking so terribly smug while blowing smoke in her face.
Mercy allows herself to suffer it all, however. She's sprawled on a chaise longue beside her brother-saint, sitting at stiff angles with several feet of prim distance between them, her spine straight and jaw set, with a strangling grip on her flute of champagne. The sparkling wine is two hundred years old and incomprehensibly expensive, but she's still had enough of it that she's tipsy and punchy, staring at Cassiopoeia on the other side of the room, where she looks as comfortable as Mercymorn is uncomfortable. The Saint of Joy would be more bitter about it if Cassiopoeia weren't so kind at the same time.
Another puff of smoke gusts into her face, and she bristles like an angry peacock, glaring at him. "Augustine. Must you constantly smoke those things? You reek like a factory. And even a Lyctor's track record for repairing cancer isn't fantastic, if you recall."
She shoots a significant glance at Cytherea across the room.
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Right now, Augustine is more of an observer than an actual participant -- he's working a cigarette in one hand, a flute of champagne in the other, and his eyes almost match the smug, contented smile on his face. The lively bustle of his saintly brothers and sisters fills him up, in a very special way, and his smile is very nearly genuine. Ordinarily, he wouldn't be caught dead near Mercymorn, but this is his third round of drink, and he's more of a lightweight than he cares to admit. At least he's not under the table. In this state, deliberately antagonizing Mercymorn is almost fun.
Augustine tips his head back and lazily releases another puff of smoke. Then, he does the unthinkable: he looks directly into those awful eyes that Mercy wears, leans over, and lets a bunch of cigarette ash fall all over the floor. Oh, the untidiness of it all!
"My, are you concerned for me? I'm touched. I really ought to return the favor." Augustine takes a sip of his champagne. "You ought to relax. Have a cig. By John, have a drink. I won't have you ruin another one of our little sprees, even if you do have a thousand-year streak going." Augustine offers Mercymorn a rude little grin that very clearly reads: eat shit.
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"I have had a drink. I have, in fact, had many drinks. This Third House vintage always goes right up my nose; it's intolerably fizzy."
Her voice is clipped and severe, each word driven into the air between them like she's stabbing it. Augustine's presence is so familiar, like perpetual fingernails on a chalkboard, raking down her spine and prickling her skin. She wants to wipe that smug smile off his face, mop him on the floor with it. Perhaps shove his mouth into those ashes. Impossible.
The implication (true as it is) that she's the one who's ruined the parties makes her nostrils flare. "As if I'm the one causing a scene, and not our sister vomiting on the tablecloth. I can at least stomach my drinks." There's a thoughtful look in her flinty, stormy eyes. "This is fine. I am relaxing. I am relaxed. But if Cyrus starts unbuttoning his shirt, I am breaking down the door and storming out of here."
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As much as he hates to admit it, however, Augustine does not disagree with Mercymorn's assessment of the Third House vintage. True to form, it's all sparkle and no substance, which means it's not getting Augustine drunk as quickly as he might like. He shoots Mercymorn a disdainful look, and throws back the rest of his flute. "Intolerable? This is nothing. If you want intolerable, look in the mirror. I'm going to need several more of these if I'm to make it though a party that you've so kindly decided to attend."
Augustine's gaze turns to the now-vomiting Cassiopeia. He shrugs, completely unbothered. "You ought to give it a try sometime. It'd be the first funny thing you did in your life. I'm sure Ulysses would even cheer. Breaking down the door, on the other hand, absolutely counts as ruining the party." Augustine really should have stopped talking several sentences ago. But his judgement isn't in the best state right now -- that's probably why he's talking to Mercymorn at all, honestly.
He keeps going, despite himself. "It really would be such a shame. For all your inane zealotry, you'd really destroy holy property like that?" His voice has taken on a bitter, scornful tone. That sentiment has always been lurking under the surface whenever Augustine speaks to his eldest sister, but now, thanks to the drink, it's bubbling up to the surface.
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And she answers, distractedly, "Our work is holy. God is holy. The walls and doors and tables of the Mithraeum, however, are not holy. They're just things."
Even as those words leave her lips, however, murmured into the edge of her glass, Mercy's already second-guessing them and hating herself for second-guessing them. Is God holy? She saw him this morning with a coffee-stain on his pristine white shirt. He's just a man. The First and Second Saints, above all, know this better than most. They've been with him the longest, and they remember him back when he was still shaking off the last vestiges of mortality, or even pre-Resurrection, back when he was just a man. He's now a very powerful one, and immortal, but still. Those cracks are there.
Augustine is the very last person she wants to bat these thoughts around with. She wishes Cristabel were here, to pick her brain and go over these quiet worrisome subjects. (But she isn't, and she's dead, and isn't that part of the whole problem?)
"Anyhow, I suppose this one could be worse, even your company aside. There's no herald alert to interrupt it and we haven't all been eaten alive yet, so."
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Augustine makes a whole, pretentious show out of lighting another cigarette and taking a drag. "Aren't we all things, Joy?" Once again, he's being deliberately annoying. Depending on how you look at it, this is either his worst or best drunken philosophy in the last century. He's on a roll tonight.
Mercymorn, apparently, is as well, since she's just gone and said something horrifically funny. Augustine barks a laugh, false and brittle. "Could be worse? Why, I'd much rather have an RB eat me alive than spend time with you." At least in that case, he probably wouldn't be conscious.
Come to think of it, however, he could make himself a little less conscious, here. Augustine lazily rises from his spot and fetches a bottle of the Third House vintage, first filling his flute up before returning to fill up Mercymorn's. Assuming she doesn't jerk the flute away, that is. If she doesn't, Augustine will fill up the flute just a tad too full, so that a little of the champagne spills on her gown.
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She holds the flute out, unthinkingly, only to be rewarded with a splash of champagne for her trouble. The look Augustine gets in return is spiteful, glaring daggers at him; for a brief moment, Mercy daydreams optimistically about sharpening her ulna into a knife and stabbing him with it. Bone magic isn't her forté, but she could make do.
Her sleeve is now damp, as is the tulle of her skirt, making the gossamer-thin fabric stick to her thigh. It's not disastrous, but it's mildly uncomfortable. He loves making her uncomfortable. She takes a deep swig of the glass to make up for it.
"If you're losing control of your hands, by the by," a pointed look at the spilled champagne, "you might want to get that checked out. Could be a stroke, or deteriorating motor function. I could take a look, if you like." She flutters her fingers at him. A threat if ever there was one; they both know what damage Mercy can do with a touch.
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Augustine takes up his seat again. He's blissfully quiet for several long moments, sipping his drink and surveying the party with those steely eyes. God, who must think that he and Mercymorn are finally managing some polite conversation, gives the two of them a happy little wave. The gesture makes Augustine feel nauseated. Augustine mutters darkly, mostly to himself, but just loud enough for Mercymorn to hear. "You don't deserve that, you know. None of us do. But especially not you."
Nobody should be friendly towards a monster. No one should love a tomb. And Augustine has a special contempt for the prim grave who sits beside him. He has spent the better part of the last thousand years convincing himself that his state is her fault. For all of Mercymorn's obsession with control, she couldn't control her stupid cavalier. Now, halfway through his fifth glass, Augustine is more convinced of this than ever.
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that's what the water gave me.
hades hears the howling whenever she comes to the shore, the endless, mournful churn of the dead. how they long to pass through into her kingdom, out of the tortured half-existence all of humanity is forced into, thanks to the ego of one shitheaded madman in a crown. how they long to know peace. sometimes, a handful of souls slip through, but it’s drops in the vast oceans of thanergic power that john fucking gaius hoards and hoards and hoards. hades does what she can, welcomes them and makes them comfortable, but otherwise…
now, though? this moment, this second, something happens. the wards flicker like she’s never seen them before. this isn’t styx’s normal ebb and flow, this isn’t one of the resurrection beasts coming through the maw of one of the stoma. this is the entire ecosystem wavering, the whole kit and fucking caboodle’s existence in question. something is happening to the usurper, and hades would kill to find out what. metaphorically speaking. and literally, probably.
she dives in.
it’s like swimming through wet concrete. styx has always had strong currents, but this is downright viscous. for a few frantic strokes, hades is sure that she’s made a mistake. maybe she’s finally gone insane, imagined something, and this is the dumbest method of suicide anyone’s ever conceived. but no, this is the river styx, and regardless of what gaius has done, she is still its mistress. she inhales, and the water recedes around her. exhales, and her feet hit solid ground. stands upright, and styx parts before her. around her are the souls of the dead, bodies and babies and victims and murderers. and somewhere in the distance, there’s one blazing beacon of necromatic power, a hundred centuries old. hades knows a lyctor when she sees one.
the current crashes towards her, bringing one body out of billions closer and closer in a wall of water and blood and death - and then, as if she were fishing, hades reaches and grabs the lyctor by her collar. she turns back home, and trudges through the mouth to hell.
by the time that she’s surfacing onto the far side of the shore, her hair’s already dry. the woman she’s dragging behind her won’t be as lucky. when hades’ boots hit dry sand, she lifts the woman up and out of the water and hurls her onto the shore. ]
Start talking, bitch.
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when god blows her apart, she's fairly certain that's the end of it for her.
but it's one lone soul blazing with power, desperately trying to piece itself back together like he had done — but her power is nothing, nothing beside his, and so she remains dead, tossed almost contemptuously out into those seething currents. a hand eventually catches her and drags her through to the other side before she's hauled onto the far shores like a drowned rat, hacking up water which is not water. her lungs (which are technically no longer lungs) shudder, wheeze. she isn't alive, but from the looks of things, this isn't the nothingness oblivion of death she expected, either. (what a funny time to discover an afterlife, after serving as the hand of god for a myriad.)
mercy looks up at the unfamiliar woman, perplexed and scowling. and then, because she is a very difficult woman herself, she simply does not answer the question: ]
Who the hell are you?
[ (it is, all things considered, a very ironic question.) ]
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[ the goddess of the dead is not tall, but she gives off the impression. she doesn’t accessorize with bones, she doesn’t wear grand robes - hell, she doesn’t even wear a laurel wreath, let alone a crown. hades dresses in black (surprise surprise), but for comfort and practicality: sturdy leather jacket, black tank top, black jeans, chunky boots. she doesn’t look particularly royal or divine. with bags under her eyes, with the knots in her hair, she looks like she rolled out of the wrong side of the bed. from a dumpster. in a bog.
she stalks forwards, and fast. not fast like an accomplished duelist, or fast like a lyctor. fast like somebody had recorded her moving and thrown away half the frames. there’s movements missing: she slumps her body forwards, shifts her hips, lifts a foot, and then she’s taken three steps. hades stands above mercy, sets the heel of her boot on mercy’s sternum, and pushes down. it’s not meant to hurt, not meant to knock what passes for wind out of what passes for lungs; it’s just meant to say stay the fuck down.
(could she take a lyctor in a fight? probably. right now, she’s banking on the element of surprise. ]
Something happened that nearly put an end to your whole shitty religion. You’re going to tell me what.
[ hades leans in. behind her, the river styx laps against the beach, red water against black sand. further back, before where there would be a horizon, the river curves up, and up, and up, a waterfall in reverse, and then it fills the sky above them. if you squint, you might just be able to pick out a particularly large ghost, like trying to see an individual ant in a colony. of course, it’s not quite so straightforward - there isn’t really a horizon or reverse waterfall or even a sky. there is no above the afterlife, there’s only the other side of the river. there is no other side of the river, there’s only the realm of the living. ]
Or I will hold your fucking head down and drown you in the River for the rest of eternity.
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Technically, I cannot be drowned.
[ It's not growing gills, but she can oxygenate her own bloodcells and bypass the whole tedious matter of lungs and throat and breathing. The main issue is controlling the panic when you're being drowned. But this woman — whoever she is — is not a Revenant Beast, and so Mercy remains in tight cool control of her sanity and faculties. She stares unflinching up at her from the ground, her own hand seized on the black boot, hanging onto it even if she has no hope of flinging the other woman off from here. She considers touching bare flesh and trying her luck a second time, but the jeans cover too much skin. Perhaps she can reach for an ankle—
Then, the question slips its way past Mercy's default stubborn recalcitrant unhelpfulness, and pings something. 'Your whole shitty religion' would have made Cristabel have a conniption, and Mercy cherishes that sense of faded echoed affront. Cristabel only lives on in Mercymorn's memories of her.
But the Saint of Joy herself is something of a heretic these days. So: ]
Wait, nearly put an end to religion? [ Gears turning. If this is BOE (but she knows it isn't), she could be honest. If this were a civilian (but that doesn't fit either), she probably shouldn't mention what she did. She can't sense thanergy or thalergy pulsing off this being, like the denim-and-leather-clad punk is a complete untappable dead zone — is this some kind of long-lost Super Lyctor or Alecto's cousin or something, fuck's sake, she wouldn't be surprised, John has already lied about so much, so maybe he shunted this stranger through the stoma long ago—
But. Fuck it. ]
Well. I mean. That was me. I tried to kill God. It didn't stick.
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[ it’s a snarl at first, an explosion of anger and fury like magma bubbling to the surface. hades has never enjoyed the supposed benefits of being a goddess - the adulation, the worship, the fear - but it’s in her blood, and always has been, and always will be. the thought of a slimy little pretender like gaius being treated like her family makes her nauseous, even if he hadn’t perverted the natural order, defied her own authority and power, likely killed her family, et-fucking-cetera.
the rage on her face slides off in favor of open, fish-mouthed shock. it just about knocks the breath out of her, and hades realizes a few things in quick succession: firstly, that something nearly killed the emperor undying. second, that thing was one of his own saints. and third, that the operative word is nearly, and that the fucker’s still alive. ]
You. [ she needs to repeat it, verify it. hades lessens the pressure of her boot on the woman’s chest. ] A Lyctor. Tried to kill John Gaius.
[ there’s another moment of silence, and then she laughs.
it starts low: a tremor in her shoulders and a quiet rumble, like any joy is being slowly strained out of her. it catches in her throat, choking and squawking, and hades loses her balance, stumbles off of mercy’s chest and bends down in a valiant - and vain - effort to steady her breathing. and it just keeps going, until she’s fallen on her ass into the sands of the riverbank, face red and hot, shrieking in hysterics with laughter that twists into sobbing and back into laughter again. ]
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so she just sits there, naked and huffy and waiting out hades' laughter, like someone who isn't in on the joke. her mouth still tastes bitter with defeat, with the knowledge that even centuries of planning and preparation had not been enough to do in john gaius. she wonders, vaguely, if augustine is going to come tumbling down that inverted waterfall next. if so, she hopes he hits some rocks on the way down. ]
Yes, all of that is correct, [ she says tightly, during a brief break in the other woman's hysterical wheezing laughter. her mouth is pursed and pressed thin, all her pointed expression as stern and severe as a teacher frowning at a student gone too-loud and disruptive. (she doesn't realise yet, of course, that this is a goddess and the goddess is so many more myriads older than her.) she repeats her question once the gasping dies down, stubborn as only the saint of joy can be: ]
Honestly. Who are you? I don't recognise you, and you don't feel human, but you don't feel like a Lyctor either.
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on the other, if she had killed gaius - or tried to, at least - then maybe she’s proven herself to take a couple answers. ]
Yeah. [ she snorts. ] You wouldn’t. [ it’s said without any real venom, but undeniable bitterness. hades stands up, pushing herself to her feet in a smooth motion - and a slight wince when she feels her joints crack. she reaches down to grab the lyctor, to pull her to her feet, and then stops. manners.
instead, she extends a hand. when mercy’s risen, hades looks at her in (and maybe through) the eye. ]
Hades, Goddess of the Dead. The real one. Welcome to the Underworld.
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→ rarelybecome; standing there like an angry god, counting out my sins just to cross them off.
Outside the Nine Houses, the Empire’s control is a sprawling net: strangling but threadbare in patches, where the Blood of Eden springs up like an incorrigible weed and where it’s easy enough for one lone ship to steal away, slip through the cracks, and attend a discreet rendezvous. Sometimes the conspirators communicate via longwave communication, but face-to-face meetings on Eden’s turf are their preferred method.
So Mercymorn’s shuttle pulls up somewhere near the Lemuria system to meet a medium-sized BOE ship, which is exaggeratedly not-House: scrappy and fast and not covered in skulls at all. They extend the gangway between their ships to let her in, with a cacophony of airlocks slamming open and shut. The grinding hum of metal beneath her boots. She’s shed her Canaanite robe today, looking trim and serious and almost military; impatient and tapping her foot as she waits.
The last airlock opens and she stares down the mouth of a half-dozen guns, all trained on her.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” The Saint of Joy rolls her eyes.
“Your god is illegitimate and not recognised here, Source Joyeuse,” one of the masked agents says.
“Yes, sure, fine! Regardless. Take me to your leader.”
They blindfold her, but she can still feel each throbbing heartbeat around her, and she automatically counts the number of people on the ship — eighteen precisely — before she’s finally escorted into an inner sanctum, the commander’s office. As the blindfold is removed, she rearranges her hair like a preening bird with ruffled feathers. Turns a bitter look onto the other woman in the room.
“You know they really don’t have to do that. I’m already an ally; I’m beyond fucked if my involvement in this endeavour ever gets out.”
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Wake stands with her back ostentatiously turned, hands locked in parade rest, gazing out through the narrow strip of the viewport. Miserable damned exercise in self-control. She'd swear she can feel her hackles rising, every last time, before the pink fucking lich's footsteps come audible, and she'd swear the thing knows Wake knows it knows; et cetera in aeternum shoot her in the fucking head if she ever thinks of pulling anything like this again.
Comforting, like running herself numb, to make believe there might somehow be an again.
"Utter and absolute theater," she adds, and turns on her heel. "Waste of all our fucking time. I couldn't agree more. But all the same I'm letting my people run you about, because everyone fucking hates this goddamned plan, but they hate it slightly less for giving humble old them the chance to flex on a Lyctor. Thus we all stay more or less on-side and no one has the bright idea of calling in another wing to come in and scour away the rot. Kill me now or accept it without wasting any more time. Your choice."
Fuck, though, not a choice Wake quite enjoys offering. They're not meant to look young, that's all she can ever think -- the faces round those ungodly ancient eyes are meant to show some wear. This one could nearly be her age, if not younger. Nearly. Eerie like a porcelain doll pulled uncracked out of the rubble, if those came in model bitchfit; you can't not wonder what the hell you're playing at, if it leads you to collusion with this.
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At that offer, her mouth thins, purses.
She could literally kill Awake Remembrance Of These Valiant Dead right where they stand. Reach out with a touch, shatter the other woman’s bones, rip her heart out of her chest, slough the flesh from her body, while simultaneously shrugging off any bullets to her own brainpan from the guards stationed outside. Killing Wake would be a feather in her cap, and she could cash in on the goodwill and favour that would buy her from God.
But eventually, years or centuries later, there’ll just be another rebel leader to fight. And another. And another. And the Emperor Undying will continue not-dying, and the last of the Lyctors will continue trickling away and martyring themselves for him, and then he’ll create more, and more cavaliers will be ground underfoot, and the cycle will continue. It’s tedious theater on an even longer timeframe. Mercy doesn’t see the point any longer.
So she stands on the balls of her feet, leaning her weight forward like a ballet dancer, and watches Wake’s blood-pressure rise.
“It’s like handing plastic swords to children and letting them think they’re very important,” Mercymorn says, miffed, because she’s always miffed, but then she relents. She’s a horrid little pill, but the horrid little pill is also pragmatic, and she abhors wasting time even more than she abhors the Edenite theater.
“Anyway. To the point. Source Piotra couldn’t make it; he’s accompanying the Emperor to an armed engagement, so we know the latter’s distracted at the moment. You’ll want to send some reinforcements to Nevix next, by the by.”
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She stalks back to her desk, measured, measured, count off the footfalls and settles unhurriedly into the chair. Resists the mad, fleeting, entirely -- Pyrrhic -- urge to kick her boots up onto the blotter. All these fucking dances. If Wake feels too old for this shit, she doesn't know what kept any of them from lying down millennia ago and sleeping till the soil drifted up over them.
Pure fucking bitchiness, probably, judging by the ones she's met.
"Noted, thanks much. I have to admit your last earnest of good faith didn't turn out complete bullshit, so I'll take your word for it this time as well." Smiles, quick and crooked and ugly -- "If it plays out, I might have them fetch you back a token of gratitude. Selling me any of your own particular troops today, or would you take just anybody's head?"
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But it pings off Mercymorn like rubber bullets and she doesn’t blink, simply goes to the chair opposite the desk and sits down herself, like a girl summoned to the headmaster’s office (and once upon a time, this had been M– with the Mother Superior, although she doesn’t recall it—). She doesn’t have the skirts to flounce today, but she sits primly. Where Wake is languid with feline grace and affected ease, the Lyctor remains stiff and rigid like she’s had a steel rod strapped to her spine, hands folded in her lap.
And she considers that far more interesting question. Who to sell out? She’s been slowly feeding the Cohort to the enemy, carving off the pieces deemed safe to sacrifice. Never enough to tip the scales. Never enough to lose the war outright to such an outnumbered and outgunned enemy. But enough to keep it interesting.
“Hm. Commodore Ithna, if you do have the chance to get at his flagship. He’s been a little too close to the Emperor lately.”
How much of it is isolating their mutual enemy, leaving God adrift with only a dwindling number of saints to turn to? How much of it is simply being a jealous bitch? Six of one, half-dozen of the other.